


Numb

by The_Fangirl_Sunstorm



Category: The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Original Handmaid character, References to The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood, The Ceremony, The Handmaid's Ceremony, the handmaid is a teenager, the non-con elements happen offscreen but stay safe if that may be triggering for you, this story is a bit of a character study into how a young handmaid would feel and react
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm/pseuds/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm
Summary: A look into a young handmaid's feelings just after The Ceremony, and perhaps beyond that as well.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Numb

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off the word building in the book by Margret Atwood, where much of the world's population is infertile. The remaining fertile women have been forced to be walking wombs for the higher ups in the futuristic country called Gilead, to sleep with the Commanders and bear their children. Obviously its a rather dark premise, and though the non-con elements happen offscreen in this story, please bear that in mind.

I lie still as the commander rises from his place on the bed. I do not look at him as he redresses and leaves, door shutting firmly behind him. I do not look at the commander’s wife, though I can almost feel her hot breath against my skin as she leans down to brush my hair from my forehead. Could it be pity that drives her to do such a thing?- no, her eyes hold too much cruelty for that, every gaze cast upon me one of coldness from the day I entered the house. She must feel some selfish affection then, not for me, but for what she hopes I will provide for her. 

In another life I might be her daughter. My womanly curves are newly formed, skin still soft from the childhood still fresh in my mind. She is much older, the wrinkles around her eyes visible with every frown. In another life she might care for me. But I am not a woman to her, I am a resource, and one she fully intends to use.  _ One she already has used.  _ I think, a dull ache behind the numbness I feel. 

She allows me to sit up after a long moment, the pause where I continued to lie on my back to ‘improve my chances’ over, and for a moment she sits beside me rubbing my back in soft circles and pressing my head into her shoulder in a cruel pantomime of comfort. 

After a while the commander’s wife withdraws her hands and allows me my leave. I feel dirty at her touch, and my insides still ache with the dull throbs of pain, and a deep, private shame. I redress quietly, pulling on my undergarments and ignoring the wetness. I do my best to remain composed as I walk from the room.

The hallway is long and narrow. I trace the cracks in the fading paint with one hand as I make my way to my own quarters. I do my best to think of that and nothing else, to shrink the world to just the feeling of plaster under my hand. The fabric of my dress sticks uncomfortably to my skin, sweat and fluid making the material feel scratchy and stifling. 

In another life, what has happened would make me want to scream, to fall apart, to do something aside from walking quietly to my bedroom, trying my best to go unnoticed. In another world, I was  _ alive.  _ I reach the door to my room, shutting it softly behind me as I lie fully clothed on my bed, flat on my back and ever so still. I should be upset, I should feel  _ something. _

The first few nights the ceremony happened I did. The first night I sobbed quietly into my pillow at the sense of loss deep within me. My chance at having what was meant to be a private intimate thing, experienced much later in life, with someone I choose, maybe someone who even loved me, had been stripped, leaving this coldness, this new and harsh reality in its place.

But tonight I am still, I do not make a sound. Tonight was not the first night, and it will not be the last. I have no hope left. I am empty, I am hollow. I am numb.

So instead of crying, I stare without seeing at my ceiling, and wait for sleep to find me.


	2. Aloe

I sit beside the window in my bedroom, long nightgown concealing my pale skin from view. I was tan once, the thought is foreign to me now. The idea of lounging in the sun, my skin darkening and sometimes burning in the warmth feels like a half-remembered dream. I remember the feel of sunburns, the sting and the way the skin would sometimes radiate with uncomfortable warmth. I used to lie on the couch in a pained manner afterwards, and sometimes my mother would help me rub aloe on the burns, when I was young. Aloe was a plant, long stalks with pointed ends, cool and slimy on the inside. I remember the relief as the inner parts of the cut plant slid along my skin, soothing the stinging and the ache. My mother used to scold me for not wearing enough sunscreen, but always she would help soothe the burns anyway. I miss her with a similar ache, a sickness in my chest that tightens my throat with tears. 

I hold my hand against my mouth, blinking rapidly to suppress the stinging in my eyes.

I remind myself that I must not cry. 

You are meant to be content in your new life, the aunts at the center would remind us, you are doing a noble and rewarding job, you should not want for anything. 

Crying would be treacherous, then, and I would risk being overheard by the Marthas, or some other member of the household. 

I have been caught crying before, the night after my first ceremony. 

One of the Marthas passed my room, opening the door ever so softly at the noise I was attempting to muffle with a pillow, but carried into the hallway regardless. Though I could not see it, I know that my face must have been blotchy and red with tears.  _ Ugly and childish-looking, like a toddler. _ Perhaps pity for my unkempt state is what drove her next actions, what allowed her to forgive the treason of my discontent. She did not speak, but she pressed a slim finger against her lips, gazing urgently at me. It was hard to tell her age, the uniform concealed the features that had once been used to determine such things, but she was certainly older than myself. I wiped the back of my hand roughly across my face and she gave a slight nod before she left, shutting the door firmly but silently again. 

My old name, the one my mother gave me, is forbidden now. The Martha's got to keep their names though, and I wish I had remembered hers. Kindness in this new world is rare, and it would have been nice to know her name, to attach the virtue to something tangible, to remind myself that there are still kind people. 

I clasp my hands in my lap, over the nightgown and push the memories away. 

It does not do to dwell on things I once had. I will not get them back.


End file.
